


tiny cities made of ashes

by tootsonnewts



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergent, M/M, PINING KEITH, Sheith Flower Exchange 2019, frantic dreamscape chases for true love, pining shiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 01:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tootsonnewts/pseuds/tootsonnewts
Summary: The correspondence, when he opens it, is from Krolia. Her call sign is both familiar and terrifying in the way that he so often knows it to be, its appearance typically signifying some sort of wrench in their machinery — some portion of a plan gone awry. Keith was with her last. They were alone.Keith.the war is long over, but a new battle begins when shiro receives a message that sends him to save his own universe.





	tiny cities made of ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neyasochi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyasochi/gifts).

> this is my sheith flower exchange piece for the incredible sochi!  
thank you so much for being so patient with me while i tweaked, retweaked, melted down, and tweaked again. i worked so hard to get every single flower in this piece just for you, and it was such a fun time!
> 
> the flowers sochi requested are as follows:  
-honeysuckle: bonds of love, generous and devoted affection  
-juniper: succor and protection  
-lupine: voraciousness, imagination  
-jonquil: i desire a return of affection  
-milkvetch: your presence softens my pains  
-monkshood: chivalry, knight-errantry  
-milfoil: war  
-aloe: grief, sorrow
> 
> sochi loves aus, and specifically asked for something where they always find each other no matter what, so i specifically took advantage of that to write a piece heavily inspired by the movie 'what dreams may come.' i hesitate to call it an au of that specifically, because instead of following/sticking to that precise plot, i heavily borrowed the mood of the film.
> 
> i really hope you enjoy it, and thank you again for letting me write for you!

Shiro has spent enough time with her to know that the Atlas is an unusual ship. Of course, she’s massive and commanding in godlike stature, but she’s also intelligent and curious in a way that Shiro isn’t entirely convinced is due to their mental connection alone. There are times, though — and he’s pained to admit that they’re fairly often these days — where he forgets the immensity of her uniqueness. She’s always there in the back of his brain, a gentle hum constantly ticking the time of his day. Which is why, when she alerts him with a sharp _ urgent! _ in the back of his mind, he’s not very quick to listen. When she whispers a frantic _ office! _ directly into his brainstem, though, along with a not-so-gentle prod he can almost _ feel, _ he follows her command and hurries straight to her heart, to his private chamber.

There are few things that Atlas tends to step in on, as far as Shiro’s operating days tend to go. Rather, she’s usually content to hang in the background and quietly move doors and closets as the thought might strike Shiro that he needs to go somewhere new. Any time she has a message to directly notify Shiro of, there is a cause for worry, if not more urgency than normal.

Sure enough, as Shiro closes the door to his private office, the dark room flashes red with an urgent message splayed across his desktop monitor. He flips the light on and hurries to his desk, haphazardly unbuttoning his coat jacket as he goes.

The correspondence, when he opens it, is from Krolia. Her call sign is both familiar and terrifying in the way that he so often knows it to be, its appearance typically signifying some sort of wrench in their machinery — some portion of a plan gone awry. Keith was with her last. They were alone.

_ Keith. _

“Admiral,” Krolia’s voice greets, unusually stoic and uncharacteristically referring to him by rank rather than name. “We have a bit of a situation.”

Shiro’s heart sinks into his stomach, his hands clenching the arms of his chair as he watches her continue.

“Keith and I—” static garbles her message as she speaks “—sent to Vrelkion Six for a diplomatic mission. “They’re asking—” more static “—sacrifice.” Krolia sighs and the picture warps, pulling the purple of her skin in an ugly, jagged wave across the screen. “Only Keith will do.” Another rip of static and noise tears through the picture, completely dropping Krolia’s face from view. “—to warn you before—” static “—may not make it.” Buzzing starts up in Shiro’s head, forcing tears from his eyes. “You should come,” Krolia continues. Static, buzzing, a sob tearing through the room. Belatedly, Shiro realizes it’s his own. 

“Before it’s too late.”

Before Shiro can form the thought, Atlas has the planet’s coordinates loaded up in his private transport cruiser, autopilot set just in case. He doesn’t even hail control before he leaves, tearing ass through the hanger doors just as the MFE squadron settles in from a training mission. Griffon tries hailing him, but he ignores it, flipping his comms off and rocketing into the sky.

It’s a long flight, longer than he’s taken in some time, and it gives him time to reflect. A lot of time. Too much time.

He reflects on many things, mind skipping around random thoughts ceaselessly. He thinks of how Keith has matured in the past few years, settled into himself with a confident ease belying his recent self-security. His hands, in particular, reflect the change. Keith used to approach the world with his long fingers screwed up in balls at his sides, fists always at the ready for whatever new fight he found. Now, those same fingers — long and beautiful, war-roughened but gentle — hang easily at his side as he runs new recruits through training simulations or combat scenarios. They flex easily over his own biceps as he throws his head back to laugh at a joke.

Shiro loves him. More than anything. And now he may never know.

Things have been...stilted recently. And it’s no one person’s fault, really. It could possibly be pinned on Shiro’s inability to voice the things that swirl around in his head every night when he can’t sleep. It could be blamed on Keith’s reticence, his willingness to completely let go if he senses someone else’s need to be left to themselves. Shiro is well-practiced in the art of pushing, and Keith is well-practiced in the art of being pushed.

They make quite the pair.

But Shiro doesn’t want to be one half of a pair of that sort. He refuses. It’s long past the time where members of Voltron should be expected to give pieces of themselves up in offering in order to appease the universe. They’ve done their sacrificing, carved enough of the meat from their bones to appease some unseen universal god. Shiro would do anything to see to it. He’ll claw through time and space itself to drag Keith back to him, no matter the cost. 

Nothing is worth Keith’s pain.

The atmosphere of Vrelkion Six is strange in appearance, with a blue, metallic swirl of gas that Shiro breaks through silently upon descent. He’s unsure if his arrival is expected or not. There is no activity on his comms as he settles down in the middle of a landing field and flips them back on. There’s no activity anywhere. The field seems abandoned. Dead.

Shiro types a quick message out to Krolia, notifying her of his arrival. While he waits impatiently for her response, he hops from his cruiser, pacing back and forth until he hears the telltale _ ding! _of her response.

** _Thank you for coming. You'll find us at these coordinates._ **

Shiro sighs a shaking breath and follows the direction. 

The streets are just as deserted as the airfield, although not at all unkempt. It seems as though the shops here closed in a hurry, all transports hastily parked, all signs of activity ceased at the same moment. The planet is suspended in time, although the time doesn’t seem so very long ago. A mass evacuation, perhaps.

The building belonging to the coordinates isn’t so much a building as it is a behemoth of an arena. Shiro shudders upon his approach, eyeing the gleaming pane glass windows and carved marble columns. He remembers his own time in an arena very much like this. As far as he knows, this planet has had no direct contact with the Galra, rather being strangled by proxy through their grip on surrounding trade routes. Their architecture reflects Galran sensibilities, however. Some things seem to permeate societies everywhere, it seems.

Krolia leans casually against one of the entry columns, picking her nails with her blade. She seems far less concerned than Shiro would assume, but she is a Blade. Their mission-first training extends to emotional reactions. Perhaps this is Krolia’s way of expending her excess emotions. Shiro clenches his fists, takes a steadying breath, and rushes forward, enveloping her in his arms before she can speak.

“I am so sorry, Krolia.”

She makes a confused noise from his chest, pushing away to look up into his eyes. “Sorry for what?”

“For Keith. Am I too late? Can we still negotiate a different sacrifice? We can’t lose him, Krolia.”

A look of understanding slowly crosses her face as Shiro babbles on, thinking of possible plans of rescue out loud. His mind churns hurriedly, sloppily throwing together infiltration ideas, ways to scoop Keith out of harm’s way, ways to escape with him and Krolia both intact.

“Shiro,” she stops him, reaching out to halt his anxious movements with a palm laid on his forearm. “What do you think is happening?”

“They want a sacrifice. They’re...demanding Keith. Aren’t they? Your message was a little garbled.”

Krolia nods to herself. “Shiro, give me your data pad.”

He does, and she plays the message for herself. Once it ends, she sighs, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s not dying, Shiro.”

New tears find their way into Shiro’s eyes unbidden as her words register. “Wh—uh,” he clears his throat. “What do you mean?”

“Come with me,” she says, and gestures toward toward the giant entry doors. Attendants greet them with silent head nods as they pass by, and then quickly avert their eyes to the ground.

Shiro’s eyes go wide upon his first steps into the arena. The cavernous halls are packed to the brim with Vrelkites, bustling to and fro haphazardly. Balloons and flashing rainbow lights dot the crowd, a strange mirror of Earthly sporting events. Stands dot the halls, selling snack foods and beverages. It’s all so crushing, so overwhelming in its mundanity, that Shiro has trouble focusing on any one thing. Perhaps it’s for the best, he realizes, as Krolia nudges him in the side and points up at a banner strung across the ceiling of the entryway.

It’s a mockery of vinyl, all bright colors and garish art. There’s a press photo of Keith in the very center, surrounded by words Shiro can’t read. He can tell, however, their intention. Keith is the main attraction of whatever event is happening here. Shiro stops breathing. From the center of the arena, a roaring cheer pours through wide open doors. The deep-bass sound of music blaring over loudspeakers fills the building. Shiro closes his eyes, taking a steadying breath.

Somewhere in this place of celebration, Keith is hidden. Keith hangs in the balance while these people party and eat, while they _ cheer. _ These people are all gathered together to enjoy what seems like a landmark event while Shiro’s life silently crumbles beneath his feet. Their cheers are a mockery of another time in Shiro’s life. His hearing tunnels and pulses, smothering him inside his own head. There are no discernible words breaking through the din, but Shiro swears he can hear it floating through. _ Champion. Champion. Champion. _

“Shiro. Come on.” Krolia’s voice snaps him out of his downward spiral. She pulls him away and down a service hallway toward what he assumes is the heart of the building. He follows quietly. The sound of the crowd is dampened here, drowned out by layers of concrete and occasionally hissing rattling pipes and valves running the lengths of the walls. It’s much like the hallways Shiro used to be thrown down, Galran captors pushing and prodding him toward his next match. His back starts to sweat beneath his mussed up uniform.

Krolia shoulders open a swinging door in the very center of the building, and Shiro sucks in a breath. There, lying across a mockery of a medical examination table, is Keith. He’s dressed in a bodysuit reminiscent of his Marmora outfit, only this one is a polished silver color, dotted all along the surface with electrodes wired into several machines around him. His bed rests upon a raised dais, and when Shiro follows the length of pulleys attached to it that lead up to the ceiling, he suddenly understands where exactly they are. Just beneath the arena. The center of the arena. Keith is their champion.

Keith is unconscious, but breathing. He appears uninjured, but his skin is cast in a sickly, sallow pallor. He looks like he’s wasting away. His eyes are unmoving beneath his lids. It terrifies Shiro.

He’s alive, but barely.

“He will be quite alright, Admiral,” a deep, garbled voice murmurs beside Shiro. He flinches involuntarily, and immediately regrets it. Even here, he can’t afford to show weakness.. Krolia’s eyes narrow at the newcomer as if she doesn’t quite believe him. “Provided he follows all instructions as given, he will complete the challenge and wake up, most unharmed. Allow me to introduce myself. I am ambassador Thrensh.”

“Instructions?” Shiro asks, ignoring the introduction. Krolia huffs and walks away to brush Keith’s hair away from his face. Turmoil pours from her in waves, palpable in the air.

“The hybrid was given explicit directions to follow upon entry into the landscape.”

Hybrid? Shiro hasn’t heard Keith referred to that in quite some time. The phrase raises his hackles. With all the diplomatic aplomb he can muster, Shiro presses forward. “And what directions did you give him? What is the landscape?”

“Your hybrid arrived on our planet three quintants ago. He was to serve as a human embargo between the Blades of Marmora and ourselves. However, upon his arrival, we discovered his true identity. The Red Paladin’s origins are well known all across the universe, Admiral. We do not bargain with Galra. Not even weak-blooded Galra. He assured us that he felt no affection or loyalty, however, we know better than to accept pretty words. He was informed of the process to prove himself successfully worthy.”

The ambassador’s words lance through Shiro like barbs. Even now, with all Keith has given, he still has to give more. It’s unfair. Shiro’s hands shake at his sides. “What exactly is the process?”

“Ah, yes!” the ambassador announces, clapping his hands in delight. The air of excitement surrounding him is disgusting in Shiro’s eyes. “Three varga ago, the Red Paladin ingested a ceremonial dish of trugnog root laced with the spore of a kremboln.”

Shiro raises his eyebrows in question.

“A hallucinogen,” Krolia chimes in from Keith’s side. 

“The paste links his subconscious to the heart of our planet, revealing the landscape of his innermost workings. This makes him susceptible to our planet’s influence. Inside that landscape, he must travel through several planes of himself in order to prove where his heart lies. He has been allowed the choice of a guide, which he has already elected.”

Essentially, Keith has to go on an over the top mind trip to prove the contents of his heart. Shiro nearly snorts at how eccentric the process is. Although, something hooks inside his mind, catching him up in his thoughts.

“And if he’s unsuccessful?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said you gave him instructions to be successful. What if he fails?”

Failure and Keith are two words that never touch the same sentence in Shiro’s mind. Keith is stalwart and reliable, a proven rock. He’s a man who gets results. Shiro can trust in him no matter what. Still, he needs to know.

“Ah,” the ambassador says thoughtfully, fidgeting beneath his billowing robes. Krolia glares at him from across the room. He shrinks in on himself, as if her gaze is a palpable thing. It pretty much is, in Shiro’s opinion. Hell, _ he _can feel its intensity from where he stands. “Should the paladin fail, he will remain trapped in the landscape forever.”

Shiro’s blood runs cold. His hands tingle where they’re clenched at his sides. He can feel himself breathing heavily, his chest heaving despite himself. His eyesight tunnels to a pinpoint, focused on nothing in particular out in the middle distance.

“But!” the ambassador continues, ignorant of Shiro’s sudden difficulty. “He has assured us that this will not happen. The Red Paladin does seem very certain of himself, at the very least.”

“He gave me a message for you, Shiro,” Krolia says. She’s stroking the back of Keith’s hand now, voice pitched low for Shiro, but eyes still sharp on her son’s face. The ambassador does his level best to ignore her presence. “He said to tell you that he’s confident.” She looks up at Shiro. Her eyes are ablaze with intent. “He knows what matters most.”

“Bring him out,” Shiro demands in answer.

“What?” the ambassador asks, tone shocked. Krolia smiles, a smothered little quirk of her lips.

“You said you don’t trust Galra of any form to be your liaison. I’m here now. I’m human. Bring him out.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Once the participant is in the landscape, only they can bring themselves back. This is the way of us all.” The noise of the crowd above heightens, rushing to a fever pitch. Only now does Shiro realize that it never really died down. He was just distracted. “The Red Paladin must find his way out.”

“Then send me in.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said send me after him,” Shiro repeats with all the patience he’s already lost. “You said the landscape is revealed by this drug, right? Give it to me and let me go in after him. He doesn’t need to do this with me here.”

Krolia’s expression softens, taking on an edge of understanding that Shiro would very much like to not evaluate at the moment.

“This is most unusual,” the diplomat stutters. “I—I am not sure if—”

“Then get me someone who is. I won’t take no for an answer.”

The diplomat stops, staring back at Shiro with saucer-wide eyes. It goes on forever, the long stretch of minutes they spend just staring at each other when Shiro could already _be_ _in there. _When he could already be with Keith.

Eventually, the man sighs and sweeps from the room. Once the door closes behind him, Shiro wastes no time, rushing forward to the table and stroking his palm along Keith’s face. He feels clammy, but not altogether ill. His skin is a bit tacky, but Shiro imagines that’s just what happens when you eat a bowl of ground up alien shrooms.

“You realize you both will be put on display,” Krolia mutters, watching Shiro’s hand flutter along Keith’s skin. “This is why the entire planet is here. They’ve come to watch the journey.”

The diplomat pushes back into the room. Shiro drops his hand to the center of Keith’s chest, fingers splayed over his heart. He and Krolia look over to the man, watching quietly as he nods in approval and holds up a bodysuit and bowl.

Shiro’s fingers flex on Keith’s body. Of course he knows. But he can’t let his own anxieties keep him away when he’s so close now.

“Then I guess we’ll have to give them a hell of a show.” He turns to the diplomat and gestures that he’s ready.

The time between slipping himself into the suit and eating the — quite frankly — disgusting paste is a blur. All Shiro knows is that Keith looks even paler than before on the table beside him as he lays his head back and looks his way. Shiro keeps looking, willing Keith to feel his intent until his eyes burn with fighting back sleep.

Shiro awakens next in a great plane of stars. He knows this place. He never thought he’d see it again. He’d rather hoped not to. If this is what Keith’s landscape looks like, Shiro is concerned.

“Don’t worry, it isn’t,” a lilting voice answers his thoughts. He snaps his head to the side to find it, a stranger standing where there was no one just a moment before. He knows for a fact that it’s a man he doesn’t recognize, although something tugs at his guts, telling him he should. The stranger is tall and shadowy, more like the idea of a person than an actual, physical one. “His landscape, I mean. This isn’t the landscape.”

Shiro looks around again, taking in the miles of nothingness, the bright purple sky, the obsidian ground beneath their feet. “Where—?”

“We are in an in-between. A sort of purgatory, if you will. He sent me to fetch you.” The man pauses, tilting his head in a contemplative motion. “Well, he didn’t really _ send _ me. I just knew you were here for him, so I came to bring you there.”

“Uh, who are you, exactly?” There is a lot Shiro would like to ask about, actually. Something tells him he’ll never have enough time to do that.

“My name is unimportant. Just know that the only way to free him is if you come with me. And I know you want to free him. He wants you to free him. I can feel it. He’s...hurting. In a way I can’t fix.”

“Keith is hurting? Is he injured?” Shiro tries not to turn frantic. He really does. But this entire situation is precarious, and even if he’s familiar with mindscapes, he also knows the tricks they can play and the harm they can do. In his mind’s eye, he sees a much younger Keith, sprawled on the ground, begging for Shiro not to leave him behind.

“He isn’t injured, no. But the longer he stays here, the closer he comes to being lost. You aren’t the only one who would like very much for him to be found.” The stranger tilts his head again, although to look at the ground this time. His shoulders droop, a physical darkening taking hold of his body. He looks very much how Shiro feels.

“I don’t understand, though. I thought they were sending me in after him. Why am I not there?”

“They told you how this all works, yeah?” the stranger asks, gesturing around them to the world at large.

“Yeah. Keith has to go through stages to prove himself.”

The stranger waits, bouncing on his toes until he realizes that Shiro won’t be continuing.

“Well,” he begins with a huff, “you have to go through them, too.”

With that, the stranger spins away, still gesturing outward. He takes a few steps away, slowly rotating his body, and as he does, their surroundings change. The deep purple sky blooms forth into a sheet of light blue dotted by thin, wispy clouds. The glassy ground makes way for hot sand, baking in the light of a big, fat sun hanging overhead. In the distance, great red cliffs jut out toward the sky, jagged interruptions in the sweeping plains of heat and nothingness.

Before them sits a squat, clapboard cabin. It’s a familiar sight, one that Shiro hasn’t seen in many years. His stomach tightens. Before he can step forward, drawn by the obvious sign of activity from within, a hand clamps down on his shoulder.

“Shiro, I need to warn you,” the stranger says seriously. “Things here are different.”

“Different?” Shiro asks distractedly, eyes still trained on the cabin. A thin trail of smoke curls up from the chimney, dissipating toward the sky.

“You can...change things here. In a way.”

Now he’s got Shiro’s full attention. Shiro turns to face him, only breaking sight of the cabin at the last minute. “What do you mean?”

“This place, these memories, they’ve all already happened. Whatever will happen will happen. Whatever will be will be, I believe, is the saying. But the way we’re seeing them now? This is in real time. You can interact with these memories, although to what extent is ultimately up to Keith himself. You cannot change these events, of course. As I said, history remains as it ever was. But, you can use them to reach him, if you’d like.”

Shiro furrows his brow, looking back to the cabin. He takes a deep breath and steps forward.

“But, Shiro,” the stranger beckons. Shiro pauses, looking over his shoulder. “Be careful. If you meddle too much, if you linger too long, you risk being caught yourself.”

That’s not Shiro’s purpose here. That isn’t his goal. He’s here to get Keith, to bring him home, to tell him all the things he should have told him years ago. 

Shiro squares his shoulders.

“I’ll be careful.”

He steps forward, laying a cautious hand on the gate leading to the front porch.

“See that you do,” the stranger replies and disappears into nothingness. Shiro blinks a few times, staring out at the empty space in front of him. He shakes himself out of his surprised and squares his shoulders.

Shiro opens the gate and walks slowly to the front porch. It’s slightly different than he’d ever seen it. It’s still held together with more than rust and sand. A homely brightness surrounds the place, like the energy within produced by its inhabitants colors the very walls and shutters. On either side of the steps up to the porch are bright flower beds filled to the brim with lupine of varying colors and heights.

From inside, a bright jangly tune is being whistled, loud and strong, pouring through the open windows. The clanking sound of pots and pans joins the soundtrack. It’s hot outside. The air shimmers with heat everywhere he looks, but Shiro doesn’t so much as break a sweat as he approaches the door. The top stair squeaks under his weight, but no reaction to the sound comes from inside. Shiro waits.

“Dad, c’mon!” a tiny voice begs, squeaking above the volume of the noise.

“Alright, alright, little man. Lemme jus’ finish this omelet up, huh?”

“But if we don’t leave now, we won’t _ make it! _”

“I promise you that we will.”

Shiro listens carefully to the conversation happening inside, trying his best not to disturb the scene.

“Are you going inside or not?” the stranger’s voice reappears at his side, the man himself perched on a porch swing that hadn’t been there previously.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Shiro answers. He has a feeling of what’s just inside the door, and he isn’t altogether sure that he wants to disturb the scene.

“Nonsense. Come.” The stranger stands, taking Shiro by the elbow and pulling him to his feet. He drags Shiro straight to, and then _ through _the front door, so much like ghosts during a Christmas nightmare. Shiro shudders at the chill that courses through his body in time with the wood of the door.

All at once, they’re through, standing in the entryway of the house and staring into the kitchen where a tiny Keith hops and chatters around his father’s feet. The wave of emotion consuming Shiro isn’t his to feel, but he can’t help but be overwhelmed by it. He’d never met Keith’s father, only heard of him in what bits and scraps he could tear away from Keith through patience and care. He’s a big man, intimidating in stature, but soft around the edges. He revolves around Keith the way a moon revolves her planet.

“There’s gonna be so much cool stuff, dad!” Keith smiles wide, his tiny mouth gaping, front tooth missing. “They said there’d be rockets and planets, and uh, uh, rock scientists! Moon rock scientists!”

Keith’s father chuckles down at him, patting him atop unruly locks of onyx hair. Keith squirms away, pointy elbows patched up in bandaids thrown out every which way possible.

“You talkin’ about those physicists?”

“Yeah, yeah!” Keith bounces up and down on his tiny feet, excitement permeating the room. “They’re gonna talk about living on the moon!”

“I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, little man?”

Keith pauses, staring intently down at his shuffling feet. “I don’t think so. It would be lonely there.”

“Well then, what do ya wanna do?” his father asks. He looks so _ vital, _Keith’s dad. He’s huge in the chest, thick with muscles, and rugged in the face. Galra definitely have a type, it seems. He watches on patiently, a fond expression on his face as he waits for Keith to contemplate his answer. 

Keith is so _ small_. Shiro has always known him to be slight of stature, but to see him this way, to see him so tiny and full of unrestrained energy throws Shiro in a way he’s nearly uncomfortable with. It hurts to think about the circumstances that took Keith from such a bright, shining ball of energy to the sullen, wary boy he met so many years ago.

“I wanna be a pilot! I’m gonna fly a rocketship and take everyone else to the moon!” Keith announces, jabbing a finger into the air.

Keith’s father laughs and pats his head, ruffling his wild hair. “I bet you are. You’ll be the best damn pilot anyone’s ever seen.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. You can do anything you want.”

Keith grins a toothy grin. “I wanna be a space explorer!”

Shiro can’t help himself. He needs to let him know. Keith has to be told who he’ll be. How brilliant he’ll be. How wonderful and loved and important. The words trip off his tongue before he can stop them.

“You will be.”

Keith and his father pause, both of their heads whipping quickly in the direction of his voice. Keith’s eyes narrow, his expression suspicious. There’s a hint of recognition in his eyes, as though he were looking at something witnessed in a dream, but just as quickly as the spark appears, it fades away.

His father is different. He simply stands there, assessing Shiro quietly. There’s an emptiness behind his eyes, a blankness hinting at the truth of this situation. This is only a memory, after all. Keith’s father is here, but he’s not really here. The barest shell of him from this exact moment of time is all Keith’s mind has to cling on to, and whether that’s sad or not isn’t something Shiro is ready to wrap his mind around.

He knows his answer, anyway.

Keith would hate him for it.

Most importantly, however, is that this really does confirm for Shiro what the guide told him. He has power here. He can interact in some small way to influence the goings on in Keith’s dreams. He can reach out with all of his power and heart and try his very best to meet Keith where he is. He can try to bring him home as quickly as possible. Once he does, he can sit Keith down and lay it all out. He can offer his thoughts and feelings, leave his battered heart in Keith’s careful hands.

He hopes it’s enough.

“I think you’ve done all you can do here, Shiro,” the stranger says, ghosting suddenly to Shiro’s side. “Wouldn’t you agree?” He doesn’t really, but he assumes the guide would know best. He nods his head. “You’ve figured it out by now, yes? What we’re facing here? He’s fairly deep in by now, and we’ll need to work quickly to retrieve him.”

This much, Shiro can count on. Keith had already been under for who knows how long by the time Shiro joined him. He’s had a pretty good head start. Shiro’s always liked a challenge, though.

The stranger fades out through the wall of the shack, and just before he turns to join, Shiro pauses, looking directly back at Keith. “You’re so young now, and you’re going to see so many bad things. But you’re going to be amazing. Everything will be okay, Keith. Trust me.”

Shiro backs out of the cabin, and just as he feels his body pass through the splintered shiplap boards, he hears a huff from inside.

“I don’t even know you!”

Shiro smiles and joins the stranger in the sand. He lays a hand on Shiro’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “From here on out, things are going to be...different. Ready to do this?”

Shiro sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly and bracing himself for what comes next. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The edges of the scene around them warp and blur, shimmering like a summer lake, freshly disturbed. Shiro feels like the rock skipped across its surface, flung carelessly along and left to sink to the silt below. The scenery darkens and flutters out in waves. Shiro watches in fascination as it distorts and becomes unrecognizable, settling eventually to take shape again somewhere new.

Somewhere familiar.

Shiro squints his eyes against the bright sun shining over the courtyard in the center of the Garrison. The stranger is beside him, quietly watching over the boy they came to find. Keith is older now, standing in the center of the courtyard, hand stroking the branches of a juniper tree. The plant is huge and soft, if you don’t try to grab at individual bits. You have to approach a juniper with respect. It’s very much like Keith himself, Shiro thinks.

Shiro remembers this day. It’s an important one in their shared history. It’s from a moment early on, shortly after Shiro took Keith under his wing in a hasty decision to grow the raw talent he saw before him. The details are different here, though. Instead of the hideous starched orange of the standard issue Garrison uniforms, Keith is draped in a fur lined cloak. His body is wrapped in leather and bronze, the very picture of a medieval knight. At his waist hangs a short sword, unusually curved and belted tightly to his body.

Shiro looks down at himself, surprised to see his own hands wrapped in buttery leather gloves, his own garb changed to the King Arthur fever dream turned reality. A breeze blows through the courtyard, stirring his now long hair. He reaches up and feels the strands beneath his fingers, tied up into a tight knot at the crown of his head by a leather strap. The fur collar of his own cloak tickles his cheek as he refocuses his attention to Keith.

Keith is angry and restless, his body twitching and jumping with the need to be moving, to keep flitting away. He flinches as Shiro’s feet crunch over the gravel of the courtyard on his approach.

Keith has gotten into another scrape, although like always, he didn’t instigate it.

Shiro remembers this moment. He remembers that the first time it happened, Keith got frustrated and stomped away, unable to express his thoughts and feelings the way he wanted. Shiro could see it all over him, the frustration and inability to put his needs into words. The foster care system beat all selfishness out of him in a way that only years of neglect and impatience could. Keith asks for nothing and takes even less.

In the past, this conversation was quick and angry, the strike of a viper turned verbs and nouns.

This time, Shiro won’t handle himself with the wide-eyed foolishness he possessed back then. This time, he’ll be patient. He’ll wait while Keith burns himself out and scrapes himself clean, ready for a conversation he sorely needs. So Shiro approaches calmly. He keeps his eyes on Keith and sits gingerly at a picnic table.

He glances around, realizing the fantastic atmosphere of the scene around them. It’s not the Garrison anymore. Not in the way they knew. This Garrison is taken straight out of a fairytale. It’s all hardwood and steel fortress, propped up around the bustle and noise of horses braying in their stalls and blacksmiths teasing steel into new shapes at their whim. Stable hands spread fresh hay around the grounds, padding the cobblestones against the chill of an approaching winter.

They’re all dressed in the same medieval garb, and Shiro wonders why this is what Keith wants to see.

Shiro looks back to him, still vibrating, still fuming, still with hands plunged into thick branches of juniper. There’s a bit of dried blood flaking from his lip, cracking in the corner where he flexes his mouth angrily. Suddenly, Keith stops, reaching up to brush it away as if he hears Shiro’s very thoughts.

“I didn’t start it, you know.” His voice is dead, lifeless with resignation of a punishment he already expects to be coming. Shiro remembers that about him, too. He remembers how Keith was always primed for a let down, always ready to be told of how he’d failed to meet expectations in some way or another. Always ready for the proverbial whip. Never the carrot.

“Keith,” Shiro answers, surprised at how young his own voice sounds. “Of course I know that.”

They sit there together, silently appraising each other. Waiting for the other to speak. Shiro raises an eyebrow. “But you sure as hell finished it, huh?”

Keith snorts. It’s an ugly, bitter sound. No amusement or relief. “You don’t get anywhere in this world without finishing things, no matter who starts them for you.”

Shiro stops to really think about what he wants to say here. He has to be careful, both for this version of Keith and for the version locked deep within his own mind, scraping and fighting to reemerge.

“That’s probably true. But you know, you don’t always have to finish them with your fists.” 

Keith jolts to a stop, whipping his head up to look at Shiro in confusion.

“Did I ever tell you about my first year here?” Shiro asks carefully.

He did, he remembers exactly when he did, and it certainly wasn’t during this event. He hopes if he brings it up now, it’ll snap Keith out of it somehow. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. Everything is worth a shot anymore, Shiro finds. Keith shakes his head.

“Well,” he begins conspiratorially, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. “I was a little shitlord.”

Keith snorts again, but it’s tinged with curiosity rather than disbelief. “I don’t believe you.”

“That’s fine.” Shiro smiles. “You can always ask Iverson for details.”

Keith furrows his brows, his expression darkening. “I’d rather die.”

Shiro chuckles. “Yeah, I figure you would.”

“So what’d you do?”

“Has anyone ever told you about the time someone let a bunch of smoke bombs rip in the training area?”

“You mean the time there was that crazy brawl?”

Shiro smirks. “Mmhmm.”

Keith squints his eyes suspiciously. Shiro lets his smile spread wide. Keith leaves his spot at the juniper, approaching slowly and plopping down next to Shiro, staring him down the whole time. He must see something he’s looking for, because in an instant, he gasps and shoves Shiro’s shoulder. “No way! There’s no way that was you!”

Shiro shrugs his shoulders. “Well, one man can’t start a fight on his own, but yeah. I may have been involved.”

“Shiro, shut up!” Keith laughs, shoving Shiro again. The clang of swords sounds out from behind them, startling them both from the moment.

“Watch your shoulders, cadet!” Iverson calls over the din. “If you hate your neck that much, keep offering it up like that and you’ll quickly be rid of it!”

“Keith,” Shiro rumbles quietly. “You don’t have to fight the world to prove you belong in it. You know that, right? You just have to be you. Everyone else’ll catch up soon enough.”

Keith sighs. “I’m tired of waiting for them to get there.”

“We all are. But you need to know that no matter where you start from, you’ll always end up somewhere else. These moments, _ this _ stuff—” Shiro gestures to Keith’s scraped mouth— “this isn’t what matters. What matters is where you’re going to go from here. Here is where you can start.”

Shiro stops, letting his words sink in. Keith closes his eyes, turning everything over in his head. He sighs again.

“I don’t want them to hate me.”

“They don’t hate you. They just don’t understand you.”

“What’s the difference?”

He’s got a point.

“I don’t know, if I’m being honest. But I think it’s way easier to come back from misunderstanding than hate, don’t you?”

Keith pauses to consider that and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

Shiro lays a hand on Keith’s shoulder. The fur of his cape is soft beneath his touch, each strand of silky hair passing between his fingers smoothly. Keith relaxes by degrees, shoulders slumping and spine slouching. He’s like a cat unfurling in a sunny patch under a window. 

“Kogane!” Commander Iverson shouts across the courtyard from the training pen. “You won’t become a ranger through sitting on your ass and gabbing. Shirogane, you know better!”

“Yes, sir!” Shiro calls with fondness. Keith makes to stand, but Shiro doesn’t let him, tightening his grip on his shoulder and tugging him back down momentarily. “Listen, Keith. You’re smart, you’re fast, you’re better than anyone I’ve ever seen. You’re a natural, and I know you’re going to go bigger places than you could ever even dream. But you have to focus. You have to ignore the bullshit and pay attention to what’s important. Let the rest fade to the background. Think you can do that?”

Keith softens more, staring down at his hands as he absorbs Shiro’s words.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I think I can.”

“Great,” Shiro says, clapping him on the back. “Go knock ‘em dead, kid.”

Keith laughs and stands, making to stride away for his training session. He pauses, one hand on his sword. “Thanks, Shiro.”

“Any time.”

Keith leaves, Iverson shouting at him to hurry the whole way. Shiro smiles at the strange scene. It’s the same, but different, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

“You know what to do with it,” his guide says, reappearing. “You’re already doing more with it than I predicted. I should have known better, of course. You always commit to what’s most important.”

Shiro glances curiously at the man. “Who _ are _ you?”

The stranger smiles, or at least, Shiro’s pretty sure that’s what’s happening. “You’ll see soon enough. Shall we?”

“I guess.”

This time, the scene doesn’t fade away. This time, the stranger smiles and turns, walking slowly away from the courtyard. Shiro follows, and they leave behind from the horses and stables, out toward the desert that still somehow surrounds them. They leave the verdant stone walls and metallic smell of the camp and hike over hills and valleys.

The landscape stretches on seemingly forever, flexing and changing as they go. They pass great dunes of sand, freezing mountains covered in show, giant swathes of rainforest. It makes sense in the way that it makes no sense, and even if Shiro was warned that strange things would happen, he could never have quite prepared for this eventuality.

As they continue to walk, their surroundings begin to change again, firming up into something singular and recognizable to itself. The trees flanking them on either side melt away, coalescing into singular walls of polished grey. They meld together into great sheets of metal and gleaming panels of white.

Their arrival finds them in the halls of a sprawling space station, all sanitized floors and recycled air. It’s futuristic in the way that only movies about colonies on the moon are. Shiro glances out the window to find that they are, in fact, on a moon colony. Electric tingles rocket up his spine at the realization. He beats back his sudden nerves and clears his throat. He needs to focus on the task at hand. There’s someone here who needs him more than his fear’s desire to consume.

His guide hums, running a hand along the surface of the wall. “He always did love these kinds of shows.”

_ Who are you? _ Shiro wonders again.

“Soon, Shiro.”

Footsteps from down the hallway grab their attention. They both turn their attention to see Keith, decked out in a strange rubbery uniform, a space suit but sleeker. It’s clearly modeled after his Blade uniform, only simplified, made into a singular piece rather than a sleek bodysuit all draped in silken sashes and storage pouches. His arms are crossed, a Garrison holopad clutched to his chest. He stops in front of a door, slapping his hand to the entry reader and slipping in as soon as the door slides open.

Shiro and the stranger follow him in, the closing door slicing cleanly through them as they go. Shiro thinks he’ll never get used to the cold shudder the wracks through him. He probably shouldn’t, anyway. The moment he does, he might be lost to this place.

Inside, the room is very nearly barren. There’s a bland Garrison bed and desk with matching free-standing wardrobe, but otherwise, nothing personal to decorate the space. Nothing except a small aloe plant growing in a bright, yellow pot on the desk. Shiro remembers this plant. He was the one who gifted it to Keith for his birthday. A small token of friendship. It looked severe and foreboding, sharp leaves aiming always toward the heavens, but on the inside was something unique and amazing. It was exactly what he told Keith when he gifted it to him. Keith blushed for an hour afterward.

Keith plops down on his bed and unlocks the pad, reading it silently to himself in the dark. The message isn’t good news, judging by the flex of his eyebrows. Still, he doesn’t cry, he doesn’t fuss, he doesn’t say much of anything at all. Rather, he closes the messaging app, locks his comms unit, and sets it face down on his desk.

After a few solid minutes of sitting unflinching, Keith stands silently and leaves.

Shiro makes to follow him, to see what message he’s received, to find out where he’s going, but his guide stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Just wait. He’ll return.”

He obliges, but it’s difficult not to follow. He recognizes Keith in this scene as the Keith who bade him farewell on the tarmac of the launchpad for the Kerberos mission. He was older here, not by much, but still older. He’d finally mellowed out a bit, dulled his razor sharp edge until it was more pocket knife knife sharp instead. He’d grown stronger and more confident, less prone to lashing out.

It’s with a cold dread deep in his gut that Shiro realizes what day this must be.

Twenty minutes later, his suspicion is confirmed when Keith is dragged into the room by three MPs and thrown to the floor. He rams into the desk, and the thud knocks the aloe plant to the floor, breaking its pot. A standard issue suitcase is thrown down next to him in a clatter.

“You have twenty minutes to pack, cadet,” a blank-faced officer announces louder than necessary. There’s a crowd gathering in the hall by the open door. Shiro recognizes some of the faces, but can’t drag their matching names from his memory.

“I don’t need twenty minutes,” Keith spits back. “And I’m not a cadet.”

He storms through the room, so much a small hurricane, shoving his meager clothing into the bag. His face is red with anger, although he doesn’t let any of it fall from his lips. This has long since happened, Shiro knows, but _ god_, what he would give to stop it ever happening. To reach out and calm Keith down, to warn him of what will happen if he really does go, to smooth things over with command, just like he always did.

But then again, maybe this was for the best. If it weren’t for Keith leaving, would Shiro have ever been freed? Would the universe have ever been saved? Would any of the impossible and brilliant things they’ve all witnessed as paladins of Voltron have taken place at all?

It’s a hard pill to swallow, a hurtful truth to realize.

“This was for the best,” his guide whispers at his side. Nobody in the room reacts to him. “I don’t want them to. So they won’t.”

A strange discomfort slides between Shiro’s ribs at the thought. The idea that Shiro and this person, this thing he doesn’t know could slip into Keith’s dreams and play puppet master. Of course there’s an overarching purpose, but there’s something so voyeuristic about watching on as Keith’s life crumbles around him. It makes Shiro ache with his own loneliness.

Which is selfish. It’s still true, though.

Shiro stares quietly as Keith throws the lock on his borrowed suitcase and marches from the room, ramming between the MPs bodies on his way out.

“Hold it, cadet!” the second MP calls, reaching out for Keith’s bicep.

“Not a cadet,” Keith growls, snatching his arm out of the officer’s grasp. He bursts through the door and the crowd gathered around and stalks down the hallway toward the exit. There’s a bright flash of silver in his hand, a key Shiro smuggled to him in a card as he turned away to board his ship.

Deep in the heart of the Garrison hangar rests a sleek hovercraft once belonging to Lieutenant Takashi Shirogane. It belongs to ex-cadet Keith Kogane now.

The last thing Shiro sees before the halls around them fade into a watercolor mess is a red rocket ship flying quickly with a purpose, away from them towards a bright blue marble in the darkened sky.

The ground turns to jelly beneath Shiro’s feet, sucking him in like quicksand. He panics for a moment, flailing and reaching, trying to unstick his legs and crawl away. As he fights and struggles, his hands claw deep into the springy earth, raking giant curls of gooey ground out around him. His breathing is labored and heavy with the struggle of it. It’s been some time since Shiro’s found himself in a position like this. He’d forgotten this type of pain.

“Be still,” the stranger soothes. There’s a command laced in the words, something he can’t fight. Shiro’s body goes slack and they slip right through the ground.

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut as they fall, and when he reopens them, they’re on Earth. More specifically, they’re on Earth in a very particular desert. It’s a desert he knows well, but Keith knows best.

Before them stands a familiar shack from a time now long gone. Shiro’s heart pangs in his chest at the sight of it. Out back is a familiar little shower set-up with a ramshackle wall surrounding it. Sitting next to that is Shiro’s hoverbike. Although now, it’s no longer a bike, or the rocket it had become when Keith left whatever moonbase his mind had set up for him. No, now that bike is a horse.

Shiro is staring at a horse. Its coat is a gleaming thing, brown at the front and brilliantly dappled white at its rear. Shiro approaches carefully, and it whinnies softly at him, reaching its nose out for a soft pat. Shiro threads his fingers through the horse’s mane, careful not to tangle it in his touch. He smiles to himself. Only Keith could turn the desert into a cliche like this and have it fit beautifully.

A soft sound from inside the shack catches his ear.

“It’s the same day,” Shiro’s guide says from somewhere behind him. He turns fully to the house and marches in through the back wall. 

Keith sits inside, a crumpled heap on the floor. His knees are pulled to his chest, his face pressed to his kneecaps. He’s sobbing in great, hideous gulps. Shiro’s never seen Keith cry before. He’s never wanted to see him do anything but smile.

“That will come,” the guide says. “Not now. Not soon. But it will.”

Shiro watches quietly in the corner as Keith grieves on the floor of his abandoned shack. It’s dark and dusty, only a few shafts of moonlight breaking through the gloom and settling themselves in among Keith’s hair. Even here, now, and so much younger than he is currently, Keith exudes a special quality. A magnetism that Shiro can’t help but follow.

Shiro goes to him, transparent this time, and pulls him into his ghostly arms. Keith doesn’t react to the touch, but he shudders harder and sobs anew. Shiro whispers reassurance to him that _ it’s okay_, that _ he’s fine_, _ he’s still alive, he loves Keith so much _ and _ he’ll bring him home soon. Keith just has to be strong. _ Keith ignores him and cries until his eyes run dry.

There’s an aloe plant in a purple pot on the windowsill.

The guide tells Shiro it’s time to go.

As they wander away, a set of swinging doors suddenly appears in their path, the guide pushing through them with a practiced shoulder, as though suddenly-appearing doors are nothing of note in the middle of a nondescript world. And maybe they aren’t. Who knows how long this man has been here. Although, something about him still rings familiar to Shiro. Like a soul he’s touched before, there’s just an air about him that twinges Shiro’s recall in an extremely specific way. It’s the calming nature of a companion, without the usual mania of a human.

Which is odd. 

It’s something he’ll definitely need to circle back to, if he can later. For now, there is a more pressing matter at hand. An extremely rustic matter.

Before them is a wild sort of desert landscape, dotted with wooden buildings of all shapes and sizes. People dressed in John Wayne movie costumes roam the streets, some leading horses, some meandering alone in the midday heat. A tumbleweed blows by, nearly startling a laugh out of Shiro at the absurdity.

They stand on the dusty main street of a mining town. To their left down the street, the entry arch welcomes them to the small town of Arus Gulch. The double doors they pushed through lead back into a saloon, all dusty and bustling with activity moving in and out. Shiro stumbles out of the way and off the raised wooden slat walkway when a huge man shoves him aside upon exiting.

Across the street is a jail next to a brothel, which Shiro finds amusing. Further down rests a bank and hotel, a general store and mining supply. At the very end, the largest building of them all is a forebodingly large installation, painted all in black and orange. The sign over the glass fitted double doors reads _ Garrison, _and a weight sinks low in Shiro’s stomach. He stumbles forward, drawn curiously closer to the Garrison building.

His guide settles a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not yet time. Give it a few.”

It’s peculiar, Shiro thinks, how the man’s language is a mixture of odd formalities and modern lexicon. It’s almost as if he’d already had a language, a communication of his own, and he’d absorbed some parts of someone else’s. Like friends do when they spend a long period of time in each other’s presence. 

Shiro squints at the building ahead of him. At the bottom of each of its large windows is a flower box. Each box is stuffed to the brim with delicate blue flowers, waving lightly in the breeze that kicks up the dust along the main street.

“Wolfsbane,” the stranger snorts as if laughing at an inside joke.

“What’s so funny?” Shiro asks.

“Keith, it would seem.”

From beside them, a bell rings at the jailhouse. The fevered clomping of a horse’s hooves grabs their attention, turning their bodies to watch a straight backed man on a jet black horse ride wildly through town. He’s all close-fitted clothing and wild black hair, tucked in close beneath a red bandana wrapped around the bottom of his face. His eyes are wild and shining as he rides past, but Shiro would recognize that gleam anywhere. 

Shiro knows now which memory this is.

An out of place siren blares out from hidden speakers around the Garrison building’s walls. Armed guards rush out, pouring through the front door into the street to meet Keith as he gallops ever nearer. This doesn’t deter him, though. If anything, it drives him further forward, moving faster than before. His horse huffs, pounding the ground beneath at Keith’s insistence, and stops suddenly just before the men, throwing Keith from its back, over its head with a practiced maneuver.

They’ve been practicing, it seems. Keith wields the reins with the type of precision most people could only dream of. He’s deft and graceful, moving like so much water contained in thin skin. He flips forward, whipping his hand behind his back as he goes and lands, crouched on the ground like a superhero dream. When he stands, the summer sunlight glints off the metal in his hand. He has nothing but his mother’s knife and an air of impatience, but if there’s one thing Shiro knows for certain, it’s that that is more than enough.

Shiro has no doubt Keith could get out of any situation with nothing more than a piece of gum and a paperclip, if needed.

Keith rushes forward into the throng of bodies, sweeping ankles with well-timed kicks, and laying men twice his size out with uppercuts that make even Shiro’s jaw ache. He never has to use the knife — he moves too fast for it to ever become a necessity. Rather, he methodically picks off each man like ants interrupting a lovely afternoon picnic.

When he’s done, bodies lay strewn across the street, men groaning and covered in red clay dust. They know better than to try and stand, of course. Keith’s display has more than made sure of that. Still, the sirens blare on and Keith only has so much time before more men come to take the previous wave’s place.

Keith tightens the knot of his bandana at the nape of his neck, squares his shoulder, and charges into the Garrison without a single look back.

Shiro flinches forward, ready to follow him in, to do what he can to help him, to wake him from this dream, but the stranger stops him once more with a hand to his chest.

“If you go in there after him now, it will knock the entire dream off. This is not the time.”

“Wh—” Shiro begins, but isn’t given time to finish, because a scuffle and shouts grab his attention once more. He turns just in time to see Keith burst forth from the Garrison’s doors, a huge body slung over his shoulders. He’s trailed by three more people, although they don’t seem to be chasing him with murderous intent.

They all reach the street and Keith whistles sharply through his teeth. His horse reappears, and Keith slings the body over the saddle. A quick glance confirms for Shiro that it’s his body from a time that feels so long ago now. His hair is still two shades, his arm is still connected, his legs flop around like a doll. Keith hops up behind the saddle on the horse’s haunches.

“Red can only carry the two of us!” he shouts over his shoulder, already digging his heels into the firm flesh beneath him. “Y’all can follow, but you gotta make your own way!”

He disappears in a cloud of dust, leaving the three others shouting in his wake. Shiro recognizes their voices as they argue shrilly among themselves.

“Well, I don’t have a horse here!” Lance shouts, throwing his arms in the air. 

“Well, I guess this one’s on me, huh,” Pidge says. “Hang on a tick.” She whistles, much like Keith did, and two sleek dapples come ambling around the corner of the building. Hunk looks suspiciously at them and then down at himself. “Oh, knock it off, Hunk. You’ll be fine.” Pidge hops on to prove her point, dragging Lance behind her. “Let’s go. I need Shiro.”

They chase after Keith, leaving Shiro and his guide to stand in their wake. Once they’re gone, all life in the town seems to fade away, until all that’s left is a mere shell of a place. It’s eerie, how the world can go from populated and bustling to dead silence in the blink of an eye.

“You forget, Shiro. This isn’t the world. This is just what Keith’s making to test himself. We should follow.” Two horses appear before them, gorgeous palominos with full saddle outfits and well-groomed manes. Shiro runs a reverent hand down the flank of the one in front of him, mouth open in appreciation. “Well,” his guide continues. “Nobody ever said we couldn’t travel in style.” He hops astride his mount and clicks his tongue, setting a slow enough pace for Shiro to follow suit and catch up.

Their ride takes no time at all, although Shiro is hard-pressed to tell what time means in this plane. Minutes feel like hours, but they could just as well _ be _hours for all he knows. It’s a very strange, elastic feeling, and he’s unsure of how much more he can take.

“That’s how people end up stuck here,” his companion says. “They get in and just languish. It’s an awful sort of way to live. Although it isn’t truly living.”

They finish their ride into the heart of the desert in silence, the words dangling between them like chains, lashing Shiro to his own troubled thoughts. They drag along behind him, all of his what-ifs and what-abouts. A familiar shack comes into view, breaking him from his thinking and refocusing him on the task at hand. Outside of the rickety house is a lashing post, three strong horses tied up to it hastily.

“Here is where we watch. It might be best for you to not interact. It may...affect things,” the guide murmurs.

“Affect things?” Shiro questions.

“How would you react if you saw two Keiths show up in front of you?”

That is a question better answered with animal honesty on another day. For now, “Probably not great.”

His guide snorts. “Probably not great.”

He takes Shiro by the hand and tugs him along, phasing through the front wall of the building in the same shivery chill Shiro has become nearly accustomed to. Inside, three young cadets in Garrison uniforms gather around a tiny table. Their uniforms are just slightly off of true-to-memory, a little more rough and weathered than they’d ever usually be. The fabrics seem more rustic in craft, the hardware more handmade than machine.

The two of them ignore the cadets, floating further through the house until they push into a back bedroom. Keith’s room. And in there, sprawled across Keith’s bed, lays Shiro’s unconscious body. Shiro watches Keith drag a wet rag across his sweaty skin, gently pulling away the edges of the suit he’d been dressed in when Keith busted him out to blot at the rings of dirt hidden underneath.

Once his skin is cleaned enough, Keith runs a hand through his hair, plucking out tangles and knots as he gets caught up in them. After that, he sets out a pair of clothes, the leftovers from his father that Shiro’d changed into his first free day back on Earth. He thoughtfully sets Shiro’s head down on a pillow, arranging his arms just so, and before he stands to leave the room, Keith lays a gentle hand down in the center of Shiro’s chest. Shiro, his own Shiro, the Shiro that’s watching, feels the burn of Keith’s skin straight in his own heart. It hurts in so many ways.

“What did they do to you?” Keith whispers. And isn’t that just the question of Shiro’s life. He’s still trying to puzzle out the pieces of that time for himself.

Keith exits the room, and everything suspends where it is. Shiro’s unconscious form on the bed falls into a breathless repose. In Keith’s absence, his skin goes waxy as a mannequin, his chest unmoving. It makes sense, Shiro supposes. There’s no longer a reason to perform the show. Still, he can’t help himself when he wanders forward, inspecting his younger self with careful fingers. His face was smoother then, less weathered, even after all he’d been through. It seemed less troubled, less exhausted. Shiro doesn’t know how to frame that in a flattering way. Oftentimes, he feels like he doesn’t deserve to. 

He’d known, of course, that his time with the Galra had changed him in multiple, immeasurable ways, but his _ muscles_. God, he knew he’d gotten big. There was no way to ignore the new center of gravity he fought with. But to see himself from the outside as he does now, he wonders how nobody was more terrified of him. They should have been. His hands had committed so many atrocities.

The memory version of him is so cold to the touch, so uncanny valley in its existence that he just can’t take it anymore. Forget what his guide said, Shiro needs to take over now. This is a moment he needs to shape for Keith. Keith needs to know what Shiro really thought on this day. He needs to know how much he matters.

So, Shiro thinks carefully to himself for just a moment, imagining his body wrapped up in the clothes Keith left behind. In an instant, he’s changed, thrown right back into the moment in the past when he was brand new and stood on gangling knees in a cramped room of a wooden shack deep in the middle of nowhere.

He takes a deep, bracing breath, pushes his shoulders back and straightens his spine, and turns away from the joke of himself laying across the bed. He walks confidently through the shack — ignoring the now sleeping gaggle of kids on the floor — and straight out the front door to the overlook he knows he’ll never forget.

It’s not until Shiro stands on the ledge, looking down at a patch of flowers he doesn’t remember being there, that he realizes he hasn’t seen the stranger in quite some time.

“I’m here,” the familiar voice responds. He bends down, plucking a stem of the flowers from the earth. “More wolfsbane. Not a typical desert bloom, but then again, neither is Keith.” He holds the flowers out to Shiro, placing them in his outstretched palm and turning out toward the landscape. Shiro watches him, and realizes suddenly that his form is more defined now. Rather than the insinuation of a man, he’s more solidly defined as one. His hands have definite fingers, his head definite hair. They’re bland and still greyed away, but more firm in their existence. Shiro wonders what that means.

“You know what it means, Shiro. It won’t be long, now.”

With that, he fades away again. Shiro unclenches his hand, not having realized it was in a fist after the stranger’s words. In it, the wolfsbane remains unaffected, just as pretty and purple as ever. He watches it silently, lost in swirling thoughts of galaxies and Keith’s eyes, of Galran skin and scorching heat radiating from his forearm.

Light footsteps approach him from behind. A gift from Keith. He always approaches as silently as he so chooses, Shiro knows from experience. He’s telegraphing his approach for Shiro’s benefit. He’s always done so much for Shiro’s benefit. It’s still a wonder that Keith finds Shiro worthy of any effort at all.

“Shiro.” Keith’s voice is so young. It’s still untouched by the war that found them, by the pain and tragedy they witnessed from so many years in space. “It’s good to have you back.”

The phrase slams into Shiro like a tidal wave. It wipes him clean and empties his mind. This, at least, is something he can always return to. This warm welcome after so much time spent separated. He knows what happens next, of course. The web of information gathered, the wild chase out into the desert, the moment Shiro realizes he may never see home again before ultimately realizing a new home altogether. 

But this is a dream and Shiro is nothing if not stubborn. There’s a different home they need to get to now. A home where Krolia holds Keith’s hand in the middle of an arena full of people staring at his unconscious body as he fights to return to the light. A home where Shiro lays beside him, because there is nothing in the known universes worth having if Keith can’t have it with him.

They’ll go through the motions again, of course, only this time Shiro will craft the preamble.

He turns away from the landscape and reaches out, tucking the wolfsbane behind Keith’s ear and setting his hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Thank you, Keith. For everything you’ve done. And everything you will.”

Keith’s confusion shows on his face, a rare lapse in control. He frowns a little, worry gleaming in his eyes. “I don’t under—Shiro, are you okay?”

“You don’t understand me now, but you will soon. You’ll be okay. We’ll both be okay.”

Over Keith’s shoulder, the stranger appears. His face has features now, a straight, sloping nose, serious eyes, a wide, thin-lipped mouth. His eyes are a strange golden shade that tips the balance of Shiro’s familiarity. Still, he can’t quite place how he knows this man. It’s like he knows, but his mind just won’t let him _ have it. _The knowledge is right there, poking at him, and dancing away just as quickly.

“You should come see this,” Keith says, turning back toward the shack.

“Keith,” Shiro says quietly. Keith turns back to him, eyebrows raised. “I just need you to know that I’m here for you, okay? I’ll never leave you alone again. You know that right?”

Keith’s eyes widen, shimmering in the dreamy light of a dreamscape sunrise. His mouth drops open as if to answer, but before he can, the scene around them suddenly begins to fade. The last thing Shiro sees of it before disappearing altogether is Keith’s confused face, limned in gold and wonder.

“Time is running short, Shiro,” the guide warns beside him. “He’s fading. I can’t feel him as well as I could when we first arrived.”

It’s frightening to hear, but more frightening to see. Shiro’d thought, once upon a time, that his feelings were well-known. He’d thought they were obvious and easy to see. Perhaps Keith hadn’t been ready to receive them, or hadn’t thought it was time. Maybe Shiro should have opened his damn mouth sooner and spilled his guts on the floor at Keith’s feet. Whatever the reason, Shiro wonders now if he really ever knew at all. Keith’s mind is digging in, hurling him through all of his most painful moments without a single bit of respite. 

For all Shiro knows, Keith may never get to know how much he truly loves him.

Space is dark, and cold, and full of innumerable terrors. It’s also wide, and wondrous, and packed to the brim with amazing new life to experience. Their lives on the castleship were crazy, to put it succinctly. Often jumbled, always chaotic, never the same. The times in which any of the paladins could find rest were few and far between. 

Shiro and his guide arrive on the castleship straight from the desert, although Shiro can’t entirely recall how they transitioned from one to the other.

“The edges are blurring together now,” his companion says. “We’ll need to hurry up.”

They walk down the familiar hallways, the long destroyed but never forgotten surroundings throwing Shiro into quiet reveries of adventures past. Their footsteps echo loudly down the metal corridors, the only sign of life for miles, it would seem. As they travel, the hallways meld together, blending and distorting in one great soup of images flying past Shiro at breakneck speed. It’s a tunnel of voices and sounds, a blinding tie-dye of colors all around them.

The first time their surroundings slow down, Shiro finds himself in a familiar moment. It wasn’t a huge deal, at the time. But for Keith, it must have been monumental. Here, Shiro finds them standing together in the kitchen, trying to figure out the goo machine. 

Keith is laughing, one of his rare full-body, heart-shaped-smile laughs. It tints his cheeks pink and sends his hair flying, and Shiro watches on fondly, fully ignoring everything else about the moment, content to simply enjoy Keith’s brief lapse of his famous self control.

A hand reaches out to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind Keith’s hair — his own hand, Shiro realizes — and Keith freezes. Shiro remembers the icy dread that slid across his heart. He’d thought he had overstepped some massive boundary Keith needed to protect himself.

Except.

Except, Shiro watches for a second time as Keith smiles fondly and thanks Shiro quietly for being there, for being his friend. Vision-Shiro smiles and ruffles the hair he just pushed away back into a messy heap.

Real Shiro smiles to himself, fond and a little wistful for a time when their interaction was still so simple and easy.

The scene melts away again, blurring and rushing by in the same tunnel that brought them upon it in the first place. This time, the transition is faster, smoother than before. It rumbles forward like a freight train out of control and slams to a stop sometime new. This event wasn’t much after the kitchen break, a few weeks, maybe.

Here, Keith and Shiro stand on the lush greenery of a brand new planet. The castleship had landed here in the middle of the night, and since their scans of the landscape had been inconclusive as to whether or not they’d have a peaceful disembarkment or be eaten alive, instead.

They’re talking quietly together, Shiro’s hand clamped down on Keith’s shoulder as their whispers float over the breeze. They laugh quietly together, and a wistful sigh sounds out over the sight of them.

It’s not Shiro’s.

He looks to his left, where it originated, and finds Keith. This Keith. _ Current _Keith.

He’s watching their interaction with a sad expression, his eyebrows drawn tightly together as he looks upon their younger selves. It hurts Shiro, because he understands this look. It’s a look he knows he’s worn several times over the past few years, it’s a look he sees on his face in the moment before he disconnects from a video call with this very man.

“Keith,” Shiro says lowly. Keith doesn’t respond. He doesn’t so much as move or blink. “Keith, can you hear me?” Shiro reaches out, tries to touch him, but his hand phases right through Keith’s shoulder. He’s so close now, he can’t hit a wall. “Keith, please,” he begs. “Please, come back to me.”

A muscle in Keith’s neck twitches.

The world melts away once more.

Now they’re back on the castleship. Now, Shiro is no longer Shiro. Shiro is his clone, angry and defiant in the face of his very best friend. So willing to let him walk away into the empty recesses of space, to allow him to throw himself into violence and harm all so he can feel control again.

Shiro watches on as all of Voltron allows him to leave after perfunctory goodbyes. Shiro remembers how they’d all pulled back to center nearly immediately after Keith was gone. It was strange, how quickly they’d all bounced back, but of course Shiro hadn’t cared at the time.

A silent tear works its way down Keith’s cheek. Shiro reaches out again, tentative, ready for failure. His fingertips brush soft bangs, wispy hairs falling out of the now signature braid Keith constantly wears his long hair in. He tucks a strand behind Keith’s ear. Keith still doesn’t react, but it’s okay. They’ll get there. 

Post-Keith Voltron freezes and blurs away, quickly replaced by Keith on his back, a grinning Shiro poised to strike a deathblow.

“Shiro, please!”

Shiro seems so much more feral in Keith’s memory than Keith had ever described him. He’s so animalistic as he plunges forward to take his best friend’s life.

“You’re my brother!”

Memory Shiro’s teeth grit. Current Keith’s breath hitches.

“I love you!”

Memory Shiro pauses. Current Shiro pauses. Current Keith hiccups.

Shiro watches in fascination as his clone hesitates, only for a moment. It took Shiro a long time to slot his own memories in along with the clone’s. Sometimes, new events still open up old doors in his mind. This happens now, shaking loose a few particles of feeling he’d locked away. The euphoria, the care, the immense, overwhelming, blinding guilt washing through his body just before Haggar whispered to him in his mind and pulled him back into the cottony depths of her control.

Keith’s shoulders are shaking now, crying as he is at replaying the memory. Shiro reaches back out, grabs him by the scruff of the neck and tugs him close, crushing his face to his own heaving chest.

Keith sobs openly, great gulping cries muffled by Shiro’s shirt. He shakes and shakes and _ shakes, _ and Shiro briefly worries that he’ll come apart at the seams if it continues for much longer. Keith waves his hand weakly against Shiro’s chest, as if to wipe the memory away, and it works.

Their struggle melts behind them, left to the annals of time and Keith’s burdened memory.

In its place springs up something new, something so much more recent than anything they’ve watched so far. It’s a moment from just before one of their final struggles. Keith sits alone atop the black lion, Kosmo pressed up against his side. Keith sighs, sinking his hand into the space wolf’s scruffy fur and shoving his face into the wolf’s side.

“It’s okay, boy. I didn’t really think he’d come.”

Shiro’s gut twists with guilt. Lance told him about this night after it occurred. Shiro really did intend to go see Keith. He did. But, after all was said and done, he knew things between them were strained (mostly due to his own choice), and then someone from the bridge needed him, and the Captain of the Atlas never truly caught a break. By the time he’d finished making excuses for himself and distracting from the matter at hand, it was one in the morning, and even if he never saw Keith that day, he just knew that something between them had broken in a serious way.

Somewhere deep in his charcoal heart, Shiro wanted it.

He couldn’t imagine causing them the distraction of cracking their broken hearts open and trying to scramble together whatever the contents might be. He didn’t think it was fair to either of them. He still thinks that, in a sense. But this has gone on too long, now.

Shiro has ignored this wound for too long. It’s festered now, infected the surrounding tissue, and the rot is eating at them both. They keep picking at the scab secondhand, and eventually it’ll kill them. Sooner rather than later, if this experience is anything to go by. God, Shiro hopes Krolia can’t see what’s happening. She’d never forgive him. Or maybe she would. She’s sort of an enigma.

Keith sniffles, and Shiro comes back to himself. The scene is frozen, Keith looking out upon a barren desert sprawled before him, Kosmo watching him in worry. The sand below them still stirs, kicked up in the chilly desert wind.

“You know,” Shiro starts, rubbing soothing circles into the skin of Keith’s neck. “I get why you’re watching this stuff, I really do. I don’t think this simulation, or whatever it is, is meant to be easy. I think it’s meant to make you look at the worst stuff you can think of so they can keep you here. I’m not gonna get into how that makes me feel, but I have a few choice words for the council when we get out of here, I can tell you that much.”

Keith snorts weakly. It’s as positive of a sign as Shiro could hope for, so he presses on.

“Did I ever tell you about the milkvetch in the desert?” Keith doesn’t need to respond, but he shakes his head no anyway. “Yeah, I knew I hadn’t. I don’t know why I pretended not to know. Well, there’s this flower called a milkvetch. I don’t have to tell you how hard it is to grow things in the desert, right. It’s almost impossible. But the milkvetch, it does so well out there. It just grows with no problem, no matter the adversity and harsh conditions surrounding them. It’s resilient and hardy. It doesn’t let the outside world tell it how to be. It just is.”

Shiro pauses for breath, lets his words sink in.

“It made me think of you when I learned about it. It still makes me think of you. Every time I saw it on Garrison property, I’d just stop and think, ‘Keith is just like this. Keith is so strong.’”

Keith scoffs.

“What?” Shiro laughs. “You don’t think that way? You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, Keith. You’re—” _ everything_, he wants to say. He should say. Keith needs him to say. He doesn’t say. 

“I’m tired, Shiro.” Keith pulls away, turning his back to him. It leaves Shiro cold, colder than he can ever remember being. Colder than the frozen depths of blackness he’s been thrust into so many times before.

“Keith,” he pleads.

It’s no use. Keith waves his arm ineffectually at the picture beyond them and their dusty surroundings. It all fades away at his bidding. Shiro gasps as he’s forced out of the scene and away from Keith himself. His hands grasp at nothing, not for lack of trying. Despair settles in, taking over his body. It feels too big for his skin, pressing his bones to cracking, strangling his muscles of blood. Shiro sinks to his knees with a silent sob.

His guide reappears. He places a perfectly defined hand on Shiro’s shaking shoulder and squeezing with exquisitely formed fingers. His nails look a bit like claws. Feel a bit like them, too.

“It’s almost over. He’ll be lost soon.”

Shiro refuses to let Keith be gone. He can’t be gone. Shiro simply won’t allow it. He has no choice but to give chase. He’ll hunt him down and make him see what he means. Not just to Shiro, but to everyone. To the universe. 

There are only so many places to go in a mindscape crafted by Keith, so Shiro just walks forward until he hits the next memory iceberg. It somehow juts out of the ground, just like one, and it’s a real doozy. Everything is becoming so much more broken in this place. Memories become tangible things, and Shiro finds himself practically tripping over them as he searches. The sound of a dying engine grabs his attention from meters away.

Floating just up ahead is the pod Shiro returned to Voltron in after fighting his way back across the universe to get to them. Shiro watches Keith pry the door away, revealing his lost Black Paladin. It’s the second time now that Shiro has had to watch Keith sling his body across his back to carry him home. There’s some sort of underlying message in that he thinks, but Shiro would rather not analyze it just now.

Keith loads Shiro up in his own craft and takes off, current Shiro simply drifting along behind them as if pulled on a tow rope. The flight takes longer than it should, passing what feels like hours before they approach the Castle. Perhaps that’s part of it for Keith — how long everything seemed to drag on. After all, he lost two years on the back of a space whale while the rest of them only lost him for a handful of months. Time must be a little springy for him at this rate.

They enter the Castle, Shiro floating along behind, and Keith books it directly for Shiro’s room.

In the dreamscape, it’s different, though. There are no doorways or halls, just one long, waxed path heading directly for an open box with a bed. It’s almost like being in a large dollhouse, one side torn away to make room for whatever set of giant hands will come down and manipulate the inhabitants.

Up ahead, Keith perches on the edge of the familiar bed. Shiro’s bunk is small, cramped around the massive bulk of his body. His limbs tear themselves out of the scant fabric draped across his body. His long, wild hair doesn’t help with the impression of a circus bear holding up on a very small bunk bed. Goldilocks may show up sometime soon, for all he knows. Shiro finds himself so much more bedraggled than he remembers. This appears to be a theme here. Shiro’s not sure whether he should be offended or not. His face is scruffy and tired, but it doesn’t seem to matter much to Keith. He looks fondly down upon his memory of Shiro, and suddenly, current Shiro finds himself sprawled out on the bed below Keith’s penetrating stare.

Try as he might, he can’t move his limbs or open his mouth outside of what this memory version of himself has already been set to do. He fights it with every fiber of his being, but there’s no use. He’s doomed to play out this little show for Keith.

The smell of honeysuckle teases at Shiro’s nose, something he knows shouldn’t be floating out in the recesses of space. He doesn’t remember smelling honeysuckle on this particular day, either. All he remembers is sweat, fear, and exhaustion. Although, to be fair, that was most of their time in space no matter what was going on.

Keith moves with silent, tender care as he tucks the sheet in around Shiro’s shoulders and legs. 

The sweet, floral scent dripping from Keith’s skin is warm and welcome, like coming home after a long day of stressful work on the bridge. For a moment, Shiro is thrown to his own impossible dream of a brilliant future. It’s a dream where he opens their shared front door and tosses his keys into a waiting dish. One where he toes off his work shoes and hangs his coat on a hook in the entry. A dream where Keith is in the kitchen, chugging water after a long day of training future Blades. It’s a future, but a memory, but neither of those two things, in which he has everything he could ever want.

But it’s not real, and that’s the rub.

He’s trapped in his body in this memory of Keith’s, unable to change any details. As Keith tucks him into bed, the honeysuckle scent peaks and swirls around them, cloying and smothering. Shiro wants to choke on it — feels like he’s meant to choke on it — the way it’s worming down his throat and forcing his windpipe open. It’s making a home in his lungs and he knows it will never leave.

“Keith, how many times are you gonna have to save me before this is over?” his mouth spews, and suddenly, he can breathe on his own. His nostrils flare out, sucking in fresh air.

The honeysuckle mixes with clean oxygen, and suddenly, it doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s not painful or cloying or overpowering. It’s simply there. A new truth of his existence.

“As many as it takes.”

Keith is honeysuckle on the vine, warm, fresh, and caring. He smiles and turns to leave, taking Shiro’s heart with him.

Shiro can’t let him go.

“Shiro,” the guide’s hand lands on his shoulder. “Shiro, he’s barely hanging on. We may be too late.”

No. _ No. _

Shiro cannot lose him now. He’s so close, they were so close. He could feel the warmth of Keith’s heart in his palm. Dread replaces it, slipping like ice through his fingertips.

He hops out of the dream bed and gives chase through the door of his room. The moment it slides open, he knows something is off. The world beyond is huge and bright, but the colors are just on the wrong side of too sharp. Everything is saturated to the maximum, and Shiro shields his eyes against it.

It’s a field packed full of flowers that sway in a warm breeze. 

“Milfoil. Jonquil.” The guide’s voice is informative. Perfunctory. Scared. “Shiro, we’re out of time.”

Shiro hears him say it, but the words have no meaning. They fall upon deaf ears, because there, right in the center of the field, sits Keith. His legs are sprawled out before him, his body propped up on leaned back arms, his face tilted toward the too bright suns (there are three of them, although one looks rather more like a moon to Shiro).

Shiro makes a slow approach, and as he does, the warm breeze picks up. Each new step forward sets it just a bit heavier, harsher and harsher winds grabbing at his hair and clothes, whipping around his body. He leans forward, an arm held out before his face to protect it from the burning sting of it. The air rushes around them, a cataclysmic sound.

Shiro could swear he can hear Keith crying in it.

The real Keith, the true soul of him, remains splayed out on the ground as Shiro approaches. He’s beautiful and brilliant in the harsh morning light, contemplating something that must be of great importance. His brows are crinkled in the way they so often are while he thinks about his greatest problems. Shiro wants to reach out and smooth it away, calm the thoughts swirling through his mind.

The sound on the wind solidifies, takes shape and confirms Shiro’s thoughts: it’s Keith himself. His thoughts are a weapon here, sharp and dangerous, biting at Shiro’s skin as they swirl dangerously around.

_ Shiro. _ It whispers. _ You’re here. _

Shiro can barely keep himself from scoffing. “Where else would I be?”

_ Anywhere. Not here. Somewhere you want to be. Without me. _

“Keith, I could never be anywhere without you.”

_ You’re always somewhere without me. You’ve been everywhere without me for years now. It’s hardly a change. _

So this must be it, Shiro realizes. This is Keith’s very own purgatory, the area meant for him to descend straight toward and then pull himself out of. He’d fought every step of the way here, creating the most fantastical things to pad his descent. Shiro leans down to take him in his arms. His skin is cold to the touch. He’s shaking, teeth chattering hard.

“Keith, no. You have to know how much I’ve wanted you there with me.”

_ Have you? I wouldn’t know. _

“You haven’t exactly pulled me back to you, either.”

_ ...Maybe not. Maybe I just needed space. Some time away to get myself straight. It’s hard to kill feelings, Shiro. _

“Kill feelings? Keith, what do you mean?”

_ You’re not stupid, Shiro. Don’t insult yourself. I know you saw it all. It’s...When you left the black lion—When you left, I knew it was over. I knew you didn’t want me...like that. And that was okay, you know? Your friendship isn’t some sort of consolation prize. That’s bullshit. _ The wind hisses the last word with venom. It’s so very Keith that Shiro has to refrain a chuckle. _ But it didn’t make it hurt less to see you go further and further away from me. _

“I’m so sorry, Keith. I never meant to push you away like that.”

_ Nah, it’s fine. Used to it and everything. ‘Sides, I figured you had your reasons. _

That’s the thing, though. Shiro didn’t. He didn’t have any real reason. Fear, maybe. Of not being enough, of not being what Keith needed, what he deserved. But those are selfish fears. It was never really up to him to decide. And maybe, for once, he should have talked to Keith about things instead of dancing around each other for years like they did.

“I didn’t. Have a reason. Not a good one, anyway. But that’s not your fault. I don’t want you to think it was.”

_ We both messed up, huh? _ Keith smiles, but his eyes remain closed. The suns shift in the sky, warping the shadows of his face.

“Keith...where are we?”

_ There was this field I found after the war ended. I was flying a drop to a system that needed aid, and I saw a planet that didn’t look inhabited. I was right, it wasn’t. I didn’t realize why until I touched down. The suns and moon were all out at once, and I’m sure it’d be hard for anything to figure out how to live there. But it was pretty. I liked it. I figured it’d be a nice place to stay. _

Keith’s eyes open, but they’re sightless, unblinking. He’s staring at their surroundings, sure, but there’s no way he’s actually seeing them.

“Keith, please,” Shiro begs, sinking to his knees to face Keith. He takes him by the shoulders. “You can’t leave me, buddy. We have to go home. We have to see your mom and Kosmo. I have to_ — _ I have to tell you I _ — _” Shiro’s shoulders heave and shudder with his effort to keep himself steady, to not break into tears. They’re so close now, but he’s never felt further away. “Keith, please, I love you.”

_ I know, Shiro. It’s okay. I’ll be alright. _The tone of acceptance on the wind hurts. It hurts because Shiro knows Keith doesn’t understand. He doesn’t. There’s no way, because if he did, he’d come back to Shiro and stay.

“Keith, no, you don’t understand. I love you. I love you so much. I abandoned you and I’m so sorry, but I came here after you. I came to bring you home and tell you to your face.” It’s almost funny in a way, because he sort of is telling Keith to his face. To his soul’s face, anyway. Ain’t that some shit.

_ I abandoned you, too. But it’s alright. You don’t have to lie. I’ll always be your friend, Shiro. Nothing could ever change that. _

“Then come back. Come back with me and we’ll work it out. We’ll figure out what to do together. But you can’t stay here. I can’t let you.”

_ I want to. It’s nice. _ He pauses for a long time. _ Peaceful. _ An even longer pause. _ I think I’ll just— _

Keith’s body collapses to the ground, Shiro diving after him

“Shiro!” The guide calls. Shiro turns to his voice and jumps at what he sees. It’s a human shape, a full grown man, but it’s Kosmo. He’s all blue with Kosmo’s marking cover his body. Canine teeth erupt from human lips. Canine ears protrude from human skull. “Shiro, it’s too late! He’s sunk! We have to go!” He looks so distraught like this, so very, very human. Shiro should have known, or guessed at the very least. Thinking back on their time here together, it’s not like he was very subtle.

The wind reaches a fever pitch, swirling around them all. It tears pieces of Shiro’s clothing free, carrying them away on the tempest. It’s screaming now, but not in Keith’s voice. It sounds very nearly like Shiro’s own. It’s mourning, horrified, sad in a way that Shiro hasn’t been in a very long time.

But that’s okay.

Shiro might be content with his own screaming, so long as Keith is near. Which is just as well, because it just keeps swirling. It climbs and climbs, becoming louder and louder, enough to drown out Keith’s own anguish on the wind.

“I won’t leave you behind, Keith. If you stay, I stay.”

And maybe this was a foregone conclusion. Maybe they were both doomed to fail as soon as they stepped foot inside this simulacrum. It’s okay, Shiro thinks, pulling Keith close and laying back in the grass beside him. It’s perfectly fine if they’re lost, as long as they’re lost together. Maybe this is the only way for them to truly reconcile. Soul to soul, the purest communication Shiro can imagine.

“Shiro!” Kosmo calls. “Shiro, please! You can’t do this!”

Shiro takes Keith by the hand. “I can.”

Keith’s fingers flex just the tiniest bit within Shiro’s own. “I can, because I love him.”

Keith’s fingers flex again, more this time. Shiro closes his eyes. He lets himself go, begins to float along on the sensation of the sunshine on his face, the wind carrying his voice wrapping around his body, caressing his skin in a soothing touch. He smiles to himself, feeling Keith grip his hand tightly.

“S-Shiro,” a cracking voice _ — _ a beloved voice _ — _ reaches his ears. “Shiro, no.”

Thin hands settle on Shiro’s chest, pulling at his shirt, shaking him by the shoulders. They climb, settling on either side of his neck in a firm grip. “Shiro, please. Don’t go, please come back. Please, c’mon, look at me!”

_ I’m right here, Keith. I’m with you right here. _

“Shiro, no! Please, please, don’t do this. I’m here. I’m here! Just, _ please_! Open your eyes!”

Shiro is shaken by the shoulders once more. Something at the edge of his consciousness tugs at him, tells him he should listen and do as he’s told, but the grip of the simulation is so comforting. It would be so nice to just let it envelop him forever. He struggles within himself, deciding whether to answer the call or not. A long rest sounds pretty nice.

“Shiro! Please! I love you!”

Instantly, it’s as though ice water floods across his body, shocking his nervous system into reacting.

_ Keith. _

“Yeah, you fucking idiot, it’s me! Wake up!”

The once-warm hands cradling Shiro to the simulations chest squeeze tight. His body is caught in a vice, tighteningtighteningtightening, but he squirms his way out, struggling and fighting, struggling against the harsh grip of the vision.

“That’s it, Shiro. Come back to me. We have to go.”

They have to go. Shiro has to see Keith again. He needs to talk to him, to tell him everything he hasn’t been able to say for years now, to hold him, Keith permitting.

The fingers around him tighten once more, but so does Shiro’s resolve. With one final push, he feels the grip release, his soul breaking free. He sits up violently, gasping for air as he opens blurred eyes. Before him sits Keith, reaching out to him from bent knees.

Beautiful, brilliant, wonderful Keith.

“There you are,” he says to Shiro, smiling softly. Shiro nearly sobs, lunging forward to gather him to his chest. Keith goes willingly, laughter in his voice. “Jeez, it’s almost like I made you chase me through my memories and then got you stuck or something.”

“Fuck you,” Shiro whispers fondly.

“Yeah,” Keith answers, smile evident in his voice. “Fuck you, too.”

_ This is wonderful, _ Kosmo’s human voice says around them. Shiro and Keith turn to find Kosmo himself, back to his true form, staring at them with what Shiro would call a look of pure exasperation. _ Really. I am very glad you are both back. But, we are on a time limit here. _

“Right,” Keith affirms, nodding his head and standing. He tugs Shiro to his feet, dusts his own knees off, and looks out toward the horizon with hands planted firmly on his hips. “...any idea how we leave?”

A doggy snort answers him. _ You had a companion for a reason. _

In the center of the meadow, a great door rises from the ground. It reminds Shiro of a video game he played as a child. In the game, the great hero stepped through a magically appearing door to save the world from darkness. He wonders which one of them is the hero in this scenario. Maybe Kosmo.

He has to get Keith through that door to save his own world from darkening altogether.

Keith drops his hands, tangling their fingers together at their sides.

“You ready to go?”

Shiro smiles at Keith as they walk toward the door. It swings open as they approach, preparing to accept them automatically.

“With you?” he answers. “Always.”

Brilliant light surrounds them as they step through after one final squeeze of their hands.

Shiro awakens to cacophonous cheering. He’s in the jumpsuit and electrodes, laid out on a medical slab, right there in the center of the arena where the entire ordeal began. The full population of the planet surrounds him, chanting words he can’t understand and probably doesn’t want to. His limbs feel impossibly heavy, weighed down by the mental exhaustion of chasing Keith down.

_ Keith! _

Shiro turns his head frantically from side to side, trying to track him down. He whips his focus to the right, and _ ah. _ Keith is there, already sitting up on the edge of the table with Kosmo’s head perched on his thigh. Shiro smiles fondly. Always exceeding expectations. Krolia stands beside him, a hand offered, palm up, just in case Keith needs the assistance. He looks at it for a moment, contemplation clear on his face. But, then.

Then.

Brilliant eyes look up, catching Shiro’s own and holding. Shiro doesn’t blink, barely breathes, as he pulls himself upright on the table. Carefully, he holds out a shaking hand. His human hand. His real, tangible, warm skin.

“Keith,” he says.

The tension snaps, Keith rushing from the table toward Shiro. Their palms slide together, tugging each other into a crushing hug.

“Fuck you,” Keith whispers. Shiro can’t help the laugh that breaks free from his chest.

“Fuck you, too.”

There is so much more to do, negotiations to make with this planet, private conversations to have when they finally get a moment alone. But now, here, with Keith pressing a shaking smile into the crown of Shiro’s head, he knows it will all work out just fine. They’ll rebuild and strengthen what was there into something greater, new and shining.

And they’ll do it together.

**Author's Note:**

> this is going to be my last work for the year, as i'm planning to take some time away from writing for awhile.  
i'd very much still love to chat with anyone who would like to, and i'll always be available over on my [twitter]()! please don't be afraid to drop by.
> 
> thank you so much for reading, and i hope you have a wonderful year. <3


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